An extended post mortem

some days from the past hang in the present,
a soft layer over the now
I guess all days do, technically, but I feel the
weight of some days more than others.

there are new songs i listen to sometimes
by accident that just again, like the first time,
like the last time,
tug your fingerprints from my fingers
strip your lips from my mouth
and i don’t know what to do in moments like that.

sometimes, the feeling passes , and i laugh. i say “haha but remember, silly girl you projected so much!” and “he was only human” and “you sort of just made him up and made it up” and “it wasn’t real anyway, not like deep down real” and “love shouldn’t feel like (just) like that” and “it was love but there is better love”

but sometimes, all i remember is the way you looked at me and –

everything breaks

it must a wrong memory, i think.
it must be a dream misrememberd, i think.
it must be some dead girl’s thought in my brain, i think.
it must have been my imagination, i think.

but in those moments, i just feel hung from the ceiling with a hook in my throat:

what if it was, even a little bit, real?

“Was it real?” I asked you.
What is ‘real’ anyway, I thought. What is ‘real’? What is ‘real’? 

“What is ‘real'”? you answered.

“You’re  killing something. between us,” I said.

“Yeah, I am,” you answered. Something in me is still there, in that moment. Not in a desperate way. Just in a dead way, its shadow cast across a year. “Because… because it can’t work and this way we can still be in each other’s lives. we can be friends.”

“Ok, yeah of course. Friendship,” I said, but I think you saw my heart blur in tears in my eyes.

“It’s already too late,” you said, helplessly.

“What’s too late?” I asked.

You didn’t answer. It’s ok. Everything is ok. Everything is good.  The other day i dreamt i saw your reflection in the mirror. “Goodbye” we both tried to say.

All that came out was “good”.

Somewhe(re/n) in spacetime, a girl sits on a counter. a boy stands between her legs. they are holding each other. a love song is playing. dinner is cooking. and they are looking at each other.


This entry was posted in Mental Health, poetry, Thoughts on Life, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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